


Paper Doll, Tear Me Up

by elianaredfield



Category: Karlie Kloss - Fandom, Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Blood Drinking, F/F, I'm bad at this, Lesbian Vampires, Vampires, idk man there's a little bit of bondage?, kaylor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4914172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elianaredfield/pseuds/elianaredfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were turned on your 16th birthday, back when monarchs still ruled with iron fists and spiritual townsfolk whispered about ghosts and demons and witches.  You've been at this for a long, long time.</p><p>// Being a music idol is hard when your blood-red lipstick might not be just a metaphor, and you take your Bloody Marys literally. //</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Doll, Tear Me Up

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S OCTOBER so here, have vampire Taylor. I have a couple of other fics about this length that are almost finished that I'll probably put up this month too.
> 
> Trigger warnings: lots of mentions of blood. Because, you know, vampires.

_Head up, bright smile._

_Pose with the fans._

_Sign autographs until your fingers cramp up._

_Breathe._

_Don’t let them get close to your chest to feel your heartbeat and how slow it is._

_Smile but don’t let your teeth expose themselves, **don’t you fucking dare**._

The mantra repeats over and over in your head, buzzing like television static as you rapidly sign autographs and smile and hug fans with shirts stitched to portray your face or lyrics from your songs.  You feel tight and trembling with panic the entire time, your heels wobbling haphazardly on the pavement.  It’s not that you don’t love your fans, no.  

No, the problem is that it’s been almost three months, and all of them when they’re so close don’t smell like their perfume or shampoo or August sweat.  No, they smell like hot blood pumping below skin, warmth slithering between flesh that’s so thin...

Your bodyguards guide you inside, finally.

The air conditioning slaps you across the face and it’s enough to calm you down.  Your hands stop shaking.  Your gums stop tingling with the effort of holding your teeth back.  The sweat around your collar starts to dry.

When you enter the news studio, you’re set in a chair in the back of the room where someone can paint your face with makeup, hide your translucent skin and the dark circles hugging your lower eyelids.  They can hide the way your cheeks have thinned so the bones look like shelves.  

You stare blankly in the mirror while they work, and one, a young woman with hair the color of plums, asks you in a bird-like voice, “Miss Swift, are you okay?”

It’s spoken as she dabs at the damp hair clinging to the back of your neck.

“I’m just tired from all of the album promotion.  Thank you for asking, though,” You tell her.

Head up.  Smile.  Enunciate in the right places.

The mantra is hard to focus on when the veins in her neck sit so close to your mouth the monstrous thing inside of you can almost taste the blood there.

 

* * *

 

“You probably need to think about doing it soon.”

Tree speaks the words to you in the car, crisp tone clipping past carnation-colored lips.  You don’t look at her, and instead at your hands curled into fists on the pink skirt covering your lap, “Why?  The interview went perfectly fine.”

“That one did, but we can’t say the next one will,” Tree points out, and she doesn’t sound accusing.  Just honest.  You close your eyes tight, and your mouth aches with the effort of holding it shut, “I’m good at my job, but I don’t know how well I’ll be able to cover you diving across the table to feed from an interviewer on the NBC morning news.”

You’ve been at this for years.  You were turned on your 16th birthday, back when monarchs still ruled with iron fists and spiritual townsfolk whispered about ghosts and demons and witches.  You've been at this for a long, long time.

Your visions of knights in shining armor and princesses in magnificent ballgowns aren’t daydreams so much as memories.  All of the childhood photos of you are fake, created using some sort of computer software that still amazes you, considering you’d lived in a time when the telegraph was first invented and everyone had been so fascinated by technology.

It’s been 450 years, and by now you’ve developed some control.  You’ve learned how to force yourself to age, an _agonizing_ process that, every time, leaves you crying and curled up in bed, your bones all splintering and reconnecting inside of you, your muscles stretching, tearing before stitching themselves back up.

It’s been 450 years, and your need to feed every couple of days has become every couple of months.  But you’re not invincible, and right now your stomach feels achingly hollow, like someone put their fist through it and left a giant open hole to fester and burn and beg to be filled.  You’re constantly shaking and your reflexes are off and that’s not how you need to be to promote this album that’s so different than anything you’ve ever put out before.

But you’re stubborn, so you say nothing.  Tree sighs, her slow-moving blood not screaming out to you.  She has a condition, something strange with her blood cells she fixes with pills twice a day.  But it makes your nose wrinkle, and that’s why you’d fired your old publicist (aside from the image thing, since you were far more likely to be the one tearing things apart in relationships than being shattered like glass).  You’re never hungry for the long curve of Tree’s neck, and it’s a relief.

However her next words make you debate ripping it right out and letting it bleed all over the expensive leather interior, “Why don’t you ask Karlie?  You don’t have to fill yourself up.  Just enough to tide you over until the next wave of interviews.”

“If I bite her, I’ll _turn_ her,” You spit out, looking at Tree with abject horror.  Your hands shake even harder because despite yourself, the thought of Karlie’s neck fills you up.  The way she throws it back when she laughs, the way she tilts it to the side to give you better access when she somehow trusts you to kiss her.  It would be so easy to just pull lips back, sink teeth into flesh and...

You shake your head, “No.  No. Fuck no.”

Tree taps her pen worriedly against her lips, “Well, you had better find another option soon.  The entire album depends on these promotions.”

You return to staring at your lap, but there’s no way Tree misses the way your stomach growls.

 

* * *

 

You trudge into the apartment with heavy, sluggish muscles.  There had been another interview after your conversation with Tree, and it and the subsequent car ride had absolutely exhausted you.  You clumsily kick off your shoes, and the only thing that stops you from crashing into the floor is familiar arms catching you in a careful, steady grip.

You blink up at Karlie with tired eyes, and you’re careful not to press your face against her neck.  Her own stare back at you filled with concern.  Her thumb strokes your jaw, then rests against your lips somehow still stained crimson, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just hungry,” You mumble clumsily, lips not cooperating.  Karlie knows.  Karlie has known since two months after you became close.  So, looking reluctant, she guides you to the couch then pulls away to sit across the room.  It’s better that way, though, and you both know it.  If she’s far away, you can’t smell her blood so clear and sweet and metallic you can taste it in a way that makes your tongue sticky.

You rest your head dazedly against the back of the couch, rolling it so you can still look at her.  Her lips turn down into a worried frown, “You need to do it, Taylor.”

“I just hate hurting people,” You murmur, because you do.  You hate the way they choke and gurgle and the way that you can’t stop yourself when they do.

Karlie gives you a small smile, but it tugs down at the corners like someone went and got it all wet and it started to bleed at the edges, “I know, cupcake.  But you can’t starve yourself either.”

You’ve talked about it, the words coming in late night whispers under your perfectly white comforter.  You hate that you have to do it.  So does she.  You can still remember crying when she suggested feeding from animals and you told her that it doesn’t work, and you can remember the way that she smiled like a bruise and promised you she’d still love you.  Since, after all, you didn’t choose this.

As though she can read your thoughts, she steps into your space, sitting next to you on the couch.  All of your enhanced senses flare, and _god_ her blood smells sweet.  You can hear her heartbeat pumping it.  But when she leans in and kisses you, you catch the scent of slippery, sugary trust, and you swallow it hungrily.  It’s enough to keep your fangs hidden.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” Karlie tells you, your face cupped in her warm palms.  Her expression is weary, but those green eyes still seem to be welling over with adoration.  You know if you refuse, if you share a bed tonight, your comforter won’t be white anymore.

That night, you feed from a man in an alleyway next to a dumpster.  He slumps against it, crimson staining his jacket.

When you get home, Karlie washes the blood off in the shower, and then she holds you close with your face against her throat.

 

* * *

 

Feeding makes you strong again.  The next couple of weeks pass easily, filled to bursting with album promotion.  Karlie models campaign after campaign, and you buy all of the magazines she’s in and stack them neatly by your bed to flip through when she’s timezones away from you and you’re lonely.

But your schedules usually work out for phonecalls, considering that when you can, you spend your nights awake, writing songs and dancing around kitchens.  It’s why you’re always so filled up with electric energy at your concerts.  

The nighttime bleeds energy and strength into your muscles, your very skeleton.  While your species has evolved enough that the sun only roasts you without sunscreen, it still makes you tired, and you never have quite as much exuberance during the daytime as you do when the horizon swallows up the sun.

You’re jumping up and down and sliding around in your socks to an eardrum rattling Britney Spears song through the kitchen when you hear the door click across the apartment.  You pause the song then speed over to the door in all of a second, a literal blur of Karlie’s blue t-shirt and pink panties and nothing else.  

The door flies open, and a very jetlagged Karlie Kloss stands there, a suitcase resting under each palm.  She smiles when she sees you though, and in 450 hundred years and several other lovers, you’ve still never experienced anything else so beautiful.  You gather both of her suitcases with your right hand and set them in the foyer, and then you grab her, pulling her inside, “Hey, stranger.”

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Karlie laughs, and you twirl away from her.

You always feel better when it’s late and you’re full.

You toss a grin at her over your shoulder, “Of course I am.  You’re home.” The grin shifts into a smirk, “Last one to the kitchen gets the cookies without any frosting.”

And then you take off, only at half speed, but it’s still fast enough to leave Karlie helplessly stumbling after you.

“You’re such a piece of shit!”

Maybe so, but you’re too nice to take all of the cookies with frosting.  You leave her one, and she pouts at you the entire time she eats it.

“Love you,” You tell her, your lips decorated with frosting and crumbs.

She rolls her eyes, “Love you too, you fucking dork.”

But Karlie Kloss can never hide her smiles completely.

 

* * *

 

You’re the one with muscles and sinew overflowing with strength, the one whose skin seals up within moments of being ripped open, the one who can move so quickly that your feet can scale walls and carry you across New York City in a few fast-ticking moments.

But in bed, sheets like ghosts against your thighs, Karlie is the strong one.  

She is the gospel, and your skin sighs _Jehovah_ every time she touches it.  Fingers hook into the dips of your ribcage, puckering your skin into goosebumps.  Lips venture over the map of your thighs, and you want nothing more than to tangle fingers into her hair and drag that mouth up to the heat blooming like roses between your legs.

You strain to do just that, but one of Karlie’s scarves seals your wrists to the headboard.  `You could easily rip right through the cloth, fray the fibers into shreds.  But Karlie’s eyes meet yours, dark like a forest filled with pines and foxes and aurora borealis.  And after that, you melt into molten liquid, no longer even considering freeing yourself.

When you relax as though you’re trying to become part of the mattress, Karlie smiles at you, “Good girl.”

She lifts her body the same pace she lowers her hands.  Her fingers stroke the outsides of your hips at the same time her lips press to the hard curve there.  Her thumbs pirouette over your inner thighs the same second her lips bare teeth and leave a dark purple bruise on your sternum.  

It’s unfortunate how quickly it heals, your skin swallowing it right back up.

You’re distracted by counting the seconds it takes for the bite to fade into nothingness, so distracted that you don’t even feel Karlie’s fingers until two of them circle precisely around your clit.  It’s with a mewl that your head falls back, and Karlie swallows it up with warm, soft lips covering your own.

The tiny circles don’t stop, perfect flicking motions, trailing through warmth that rises from hot to an absolute fever.  You rock your hips into her hand, your mouth opening against hers.  Between your lips, you feel Karlie laugh.   It’s a sound that clutches low in her vocal register, throaty and like it’s been rolled through gravel.

The very sound of it makes your thighs tremble, just a little bit.

It only gets worse when Karlie refuses to stop teasing.  You’ve always been told your skin is cold because of how slowly your heart beats, how lazily and thickly your blood fills up the veins.  But with Karlie’s hand between your legs, god you feel like you’re being burned at the stake ( _again_ , but you really don’t want to think about _that_ oh-so-pleasant experience right now).

“Say please,” She murmurs against your lips parted for air.  Her hand knots in your hair and tugs for emphasis.

Your hips press hard into the mattress to resist attempting to find friction against perfectly imperfect touches, ones that are driving you absolutely insane, “Please fuck me.”

There’s a tug in your mouth, a sort of numb tingling, and your head falls away from Karlie’s again, your fangs cutting into your own bottom lip.  Your blood tastes like quarters, but you hardly even notice because in that moment, Karlie presses two fingers deep inside of you.  Your abdominal muscles clench, and a moan tumbles out, cut into ribbons by the unnatural sharpness of your teeth.

“Look at me,” Karlie breathes, and your head feels heavy on your neck as you do.

Her thumb presses against your clit firmly, and another soft sound falls from your open mouth.  You can’t imagine what you must look like to her right now, all fangs and flushed cheeks and eyes bright, almost the color of ice, glowing just a little bit in the dim light coughed out by the candles.

“You look beautiful,” Karlie speaks again, and your eyes focus on her arm instead of her face, watching the muscles work as she speeds up the pace of her fingers.  Helplessly, your hips match her motions, because your body is a desperate, thoughtless, frenzied thing.

In your head though, you want to ask her how she can say that when she’s looking into the face of a monster.  But then she presses in a third finger and curls it upwards, and you forget all about that.

With Karlie’s fingers working so easily, so perfectly inside of you, it doesn’t take long at all to pull you to the edge, hot and slick and shuddering.  So when Karlie whispers against your ear for you to _come_ , you listen with desperate arches of your hips and clenching of your muscles and your mouth pressing moans against her throat.

It never stops amazing you that Karlie doesn’t tense up, even when she knows you could rip her apart.

 

* * *

 

“You, Miss Swift, are a disaster.”

Karlie says the statement with an air of superiority, a concrete fact.  You look up at her, offended, but you know your hair is messy and wild around your face.  You rake your fingers through it, “Wow, thanks, babe.”

“Calm down, Mufasa,” Karlie laughs, smoothing out your lion’s mane of a hairdo.  Her own frames her head like a halo and you can’t even be mad at her, “It’s true though.  You’re so tense.”

You shrug, and you do feel how tight and cramped the muscles are when you do it, fighting against the motion, “Album promotion is always hell.”

Karlie hums in acknowledgement, and you sigh and allow your head to tilt into her fingers, each touch like a magnet tugging tension out from beneath your scalp.  The touches trail down to the oakwood knots of your spine, a thumb rolling over the bone, and you breathe out.  Karlie presses a ghost of a kiss to your cheek, “We should go out.”

“Where?” You ask, already exhausted at the thought of putting on makeup and clothes the tabloids won’t write about.  The pajamas printed with butterflies that you’re currently wearing probably won’t garner mass approval.

Karlie just shrugs, “Out of the city.  You’re a creature of the night, aren’t you?  Let’s go stargazing.”

You want to say no, but there’s a back entrance and it’s been awhile since you drove somewhere without security.  So you smile, and you set off to search for a blanket you can spread out over the grass to lay on while you hunt for constellations.

 

* * *

 

The back road is dark, and you’re thankful for the sunlight-bright beams of your brights and the fact that your vision expands at night, allowing you to see clearly.  But you can’t see _through_ things, so you ride your brakes a little bit, careful at all of the winding turns.  

You’re starting to think this is a bad idea, that you should have told security instead of sneaking out the back with Karlie, giggling until your chests shook.  But the love of your life is in the passenger seat, making up terrible interpretive dance moves to some bizarre foreign songs you’d found while radio surfing, and you’re laughing so hard that really, you don’t want to turn back.

The song Karlie is dancing along to is in a language you don’t even recognize, and she’s in the middle of attempting to mimic a low baritone, her hair tugged across her face in a sloppy attempt at a mustache when you take a sharp turn and come face to face with a literal deer swallowed up by your headlights.

Your reflexes are vampire quick, and you’re going below the speed limit, but even then, your foot slamming the brake doesn’t drag the car into a halt quickly enough.  There’s a screech as tires spin, desperately attempting to hug the pavement but instead scraping themselves raw.  You think you hear Karlie scream your name, and your hands tense on the wheel, trying to control it.

But your car is thousands of pounds of metal and machinery, and when the edge of the road calls for it, it answers.  The car tumbles, hangs in air for a long enough second that you feel your heart throb behind your ribs, and then it rolls, jarring your skeleton almost out of your skin.  It’s a blur of metal and leather and crunching and both of you screaming, until suddenly it’s only you screaming, and the car stops, giving a shudder and releasing a lungful of smoke.

Your body shrieks in pain.  Blood glues your hair to your face and burns slick against your eye.  But you feel your skin seal up, your wounds healing.  The broken bones still ache, but you know they’re glueing themselves into the proper position, so you wipe your face viciously with your hand and turn to Karlie.

You can still smell her blood moving, still hear the faint thump of her heart.  But it’s slow.  There’s glass prickling her skin like freckles.  There’s blood soaking her clothes, and for once, the smell of it turns your stomach.  You don’t even bother unfastening your seatbelt.  Instead you rip it apart, diving across the console.  A hand finds her cheek, purple and pushing upwards with swelling.  Her skin feels clammy, a disgusting cold, damp sensation under your palm.

Only one of her eyes can open, and when it does, the iris is filled with clouds, the pupil dizzy, “Tay?”

“I’m right here, baby.  Can you stay awake for me?” You ask her, and your voice sounds disgustingly frantic.  The frenzy chokes you, finding your windpipe and expanding until your lungs stop wanting to take in air.  Karlie’s heartbeat just gets slower, the blood cells stumbling.

In response to your question, her head lolls, eye barely staying open, “Hurts.  Wanna sleep.” Her tongue rolls awkwardly against her teeth.  It’s swollen as though she’s bitten it.  You reach for your cell phone blindly, about to dial 9-1-1, then Karlie coughs, and blood splatters your hand that’s cupping her chin.  Her eye slips closed, and she releases a wet breath.

You know there’s not enough time.  You’re far out of the city.  She’ll be nothing but  a corpse by the time an ambulance arrives. “Karlie!”  Your voice is firm and she startles slightly, her eye opening again.

“Tay let me ‘leep,” She slurs, and you shake your head, your own vision blurring painfully with tears.  Karlie looks like a badly shaken polaroid, and you know you know you know there’s no other choice.

“I’m so sorry, Karlie,” You whisper, and she lets out a tiny whine in response.

You lean in, and with the bruises on her neck, it’s up to instinct to serve as your map.  Your nose presses against a vein, X-marks-the-spot.  Your mouth follows.  Your eyes close, and you let the fangs slip free.  When they puncture Karlie’s skin, it isn’t beautiful.  It’s the worst feeding you’ve ever done, and it only lasts a few seconds as your body churns with sickness and you feel vomit bubbling up in your chest.

You pull away with lips and teeth stained the color of Karlie, and your hand rests against the left side of her chest.  You feel her heartbeat shudder and stumble and then stop completely.  You smell her blood cease in her veins.  You hear her quivering breaths crack and shatter until they’re silent.

It only takes a moment, then her body shudders.  The heartbeat against your hand is agonizingly slow, but it’s there, and when the beating beckons blood to move again, it doesn’t smell or sound the same.  The open wounds heal, and the only leftover blood is residual.

Karlie’s eyes open, a little bit darker than they had been.  Her fingers trail to the fresh wound on her neck, the two punctures, and she trembles just a little, “Taylor?  Did you---?”

“It was that or I lose you for good,” You reply, your voice weak.  You brace yourself for her anger to slap you.

Instead she just pulls you close, rocking you back and forth, and you hold her just as tight.  There’s a wound on her throat that changes everything, but she’s alive and she’ll stay alive and she won’t slither out of your grasp and into nothingness.

“I love you.  I love you so much,” You gasp out, feeling like you’re choking.

“I love you too,” Karlie replies so softly it’s only because of your vampire hearing that it vibrates your eardrums.

You both cry.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Karlie is on the couch, sipping tea with her eyes glued to the morning news.  You settle behind the furniture, hands against her shoulders.  The broadcast reports on your car accident, the newscaster spitting out amazement that both of you came out “entirely unharmed” (and you had paid the hospital a lot of money not to mention the blood on your clothing).

In bed right after waking, you’d let Karlie make her first meal of you, a tradition when turning someone you actually cared about.  It had felt erotic and intimate, her teeth in your throat, even when she’d stopped with fearful eyes to ask if you were okay.  But the connection had been obvious.  It’s still obvious, a buzzing in your blood whenever you’re close.  It twitches under your skin, and it’s comforting.

“You okay?” You ask, knowing that this must be hard, that you’ve just gifted Karlie with _eternity_ , which is a lot to accept and unwrap.

Karlie doesn’t look away from the television, “I’m pretty sure I am, actually.”

That comforts you, because she sounds genuine, “Do you want to talk?  I probably need to explain how you’re going to be feeling and what changes you’re going to experience the next few months.  Only fair, you know?”

Karlie turns to look at you then, and her lips twitch into that ever-bright smile.  You don’t miss the sight of wicked-sharp teeth, and you don’t hesitate to show yours in return when she asks, “Don’t vampires supposedly have like, endless stamina?”

“Yep,” You reply, already feeling in your gut where this is going.

Karlie stands up, walking around the couch to grab you and press you backwards into the wall.  It aches against your shoulder-blades, and it’s delicious.  Karlie beams at you, “Let’s test that theory, shall we?”

“I’ve always wondered if it’s true,” You grin back.

Just because you’re a pop star and a supermodel doesn’t mean you can’t try the occasional science experiment, after all.


End file.
